Grampa

Good memories of a good man.

My Grampa White.

My coffee cup is oversized. My grandfather had one like it. He said he liked to have his coffee mixed the right way the first time. The first cup always tastes best. I mix mine exactly the same way, for the same reason.

Grampa White taught me how to eat Shredded Wheat. I can see him standing at the kitchen sink, his right hand under the running water, waiting for it to become hot. The scalding water would soak his cereal; he drained it, leaving the warm, moist pieces. Then came a touch of salt from the shaker, followed by the milk. The best was yet to come: a thick layer of sugar on each portion. When I was little he fixed mine the same way. Whenever I eat Shredded Wheat now, the process is unaltered.

I remember the time that I took a .22 cartridge and kept it in my pocket. My grandfather happened to be at my house at the time. He gently took me aside to explain how dangerous weapons and ammunition could be if not handled well. I willingly gave up what I held in my tight-fisted little hand, to his leathery grasp. He smiled at me. He told me I did the right thing and he was proud of me. My mom, who had been there through the whole incident, was able to breathe again.

My grandfather knew a good deal about weapons. He had a side business in his home called “bluing.” To “blue” a weapon means to reprocess the metal, cleaning, refinishing it, bringing the metal back to its lustrous shine. An untreated weapon can decay over time; and without the gunsmith’s care, has the possibility of malfunction. I remember on my visits to my grandfather’s house that many men visited. They would always be guided downstairs to the basement where grandpa’s equipment was ready.

I remember my grandfather’s garage in a different way; it seemed dark and mysterious. As a boy, I remember both fear and intrigue at its cavernous size. Grampa White was never more at home than when he was working with his hands in that garage or in his basement. My mind still recalls the rough look and feel of his hands, the hands of a man who had seen hard work all his life.

Grampa White’s shock of neatly brushed white hair sat atop his kind, gentle face. My maternal grandfather was a generous man. When I became a man I would make sure to take my family to see him and Gramma White in western New York. Our trips from North Dakota where I taught for years would trace a path to their home during each summer vacation. I can still see my children sitting on his lap, playing around his feet, or enjoying the wide open space of their back yard. Grampa always had this latent smile on his face, a peaceful repose, a man whose wrinkles spoke of life’s hardships so he didn’t have to.

My mom tells me that I remind her of my grandfather.

This is one of the highest compliments I’ve ever received.

Mark Eckel is president of The Comenius Institute. Find videos and podcasts here.